


Watch The Flames Climb Higher

by iknowhowyoukiss



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, beanstalk adventure, sex pollen trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:57:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5924122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknowhowyoukiss/pseuds/iknowhowyoukiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If this is to end in fire, then we shall burn together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch The Flames Climb Higher

**Author's Note:**

> My take on the classic 'sex pollen' trope. Canon divergence from the beanstalk adventure of Season 2.

Mulan had _warned_ her, told her right before she’d climbed the beanstalk to be careful with the pouch. She never said what exactly was in it, just that it was filled with a magical powder they would have to get the giant to inhale in order to incapacitate him and buy her and Hook enough time to steal the compass. She made some mention of the effects it would have on non-giants if breathed in, though, telling Emma it would have _very_ different consequences for them; and maybe if Emma hadn’t been so distracted by the mission at hand, by the prospect of finding a way to get herself and Mary Margaret back to Storybrooke, she would have been more diligent about heeding the cautionary statement.

 

 _‘Different,’_ in Emma’s opinion, was a bit of an understatement, however. Because what Mulan _really_ should have said was that it would make her horny as _fuck_.

 

Looking back, she realizes that the mistake hadn't been that she had failed to regard the warrior’s warning; it was that her perch from atop the head of the statue just outside the doorway where they were expecting their large friend to storm through, while incredibly advantageous, was poor strategic planning on her part.

 

She’d been too close.

 

When she had thrown the pouch and it had exploded in front of the giant’s face, she’d accidentally inhaled a small amount of it too. Despite Mulan’s words echoing in her head, it didn’t seem like something to really be worried about. She had assumed that the powder would resemble a drug of some sort, and at the very least she would feel the effects of a mild sedative. But she didn’t. At most, she’d imagined it might make her high. It didn’t do that either.

 

But _this_ , this blazing heat and restlessness simmering to life in her veins...well, she hadn’t really been prepared for or even considered as another likely option.

 

It hadn’t started right away either, and she didn’t even really notice anything was strange until she’d grabbed onto Hook to keep him from triggering a tripwire. Ever the opportunist, he’d wrapped his arms around her, smirk accompanying some stupid ‘ _it’s about bloody time_ ’ remark -- like she’d been hitting on him or something, for god’s sake, and he’d just been waiting all this time.

 

Then his expression had shifted -- playful to worried -- his eyes narrowing on her face, one hand reaching up to skim his fingers along her cheek. “You’re burning up,” he’d told her, and she had stilled in his arms at the declaration, honing in on the symptoms suddenly more prominent to her since he’d brought it to her attention.

 

She _was_ feeling a little funny -- light-headed, feverish, dazed. She thought maybe he was just too close, his proximity suffocating her. He _was_ rather...handsy for only having one hand. Yeah, that was all it was.

 

(There was a tiny, tiny voice in her head, mocking her -- _beware the magic powder_ \-- and she had to swallow back the anxious little lump in her throat. Shit.)

 

“I’m fine,” she’d snapped, abruptly irritated at him (or maybe at herself), leaning away from his touch and shoving free from his hold. “Just watch your step, okay?”

 

They only had a small window of opportunity and too much space to explore, they couldn’t afford any distractions now. Regardless of if she were beginning to feel the ill effects of said magical powder, she was determined to continue with their plan to retrieve the compass.

 

He had stared at her for a long moment, blue eyes piercing and flitting across her face, studying her with an open curiosity, reading her like that damn book he’d claimed her to be while climbing up the beanstalk. He seemed unconvinced by her claim of being ‘fine,’ and for a second she had worried he might continue to press the issue; but then he’d smiled softly- _infuriatingly_ , giving her a knowing look as he had reached up to scratch behind his ear before continuing forward at her insistence (deliberately making a show of stepping over the tripwire -- _asshole_ ).

 

She hadn’t been fine then, and she really should have just admitted it because she’s _definitely_ not fine now. At first it had been easy enough to ignore the rising heat, the growing dampness of her skin beneath her leather jacket, but she can’t anymore. Not when he keeps sneaking glances at her while they continue their search for the compass, watching her with stormy eyes and an increasingly unreadable expression.

 

And she keeps doing it back, damn it. Except the difference, she’s sure, is that her thoughts are edging into inappropriate in nature.

 

 _Incredibly_ inappropriate in nature.

 

(She wants to bite him. Right there on the long line of his neck, on the curve where it meets his shoulder. She wants to push aside his shirt, just enough so that she can suck a mark onto his collarbone. She wants to drag her fingers over his chest, just to feel the dusting of hair there on her fingertips.)

 

 _What the fuck_.

 

She has a sneaking suspicion she knows what’s happening, but she can’t be entirely sure. The only thing that she _is_ certain about is that she slowly feels like she’s spiraling out of control, like she’s on the verge of falling over a cliff and plunging headfirst into insanity. Her mind is too crowded, her breath too short, and she’s just too damn _hot_.

 

(She wants to kiss him, grab him by the collar of his stupid frilly shirt -- hell, maybe his hair -- and just drag his mouth against hers. He looks like sin and she would bet every penny she’s worth that he tastes like it too.)

 

The leather jacket she's wearing comes off with her next breath, shrugged from her shoulders in short, jerky movements of her arms and gripped between trembling fingers. The cool air that comes into contact with her skin helps a little, offering a reprieve from the suffocating feeling deep in her chest. It's a fleeting sensation though, because his hand is there suddenly, wrapping around her arm and spinning her around to face him as a jolt of electricity shoots down her spine.

 

“What’s wrong?” he demands.

 

She means to pull away, she does, but there are sparks along her skin now, pulsating outwards from where his fingertips press into her and she finds herself turning towards him instead. Her body, traitor that it is, sways into his space.

 

_Magic powder, magic powder, magic powder._

 

One of her hands anchors around the charms on the end of his necklace while the other grips desperately at his vest, a number of curses circulating in her mind. His arms come around her again, but this time -- much to her shocking disappointment -- without flirtatious intent. He supports her weight, holds her upright when she feels her knees about to give way, and then he’s ducking his head, catching her gaze and trapping it in his.

 

“Swan-”

 

Her head moves back and forth, a small defiance against accepting the concern in his eyes, the worry in his voice. She can’t. He’s a pirate, a liar; he’s not to be trusted, no matter how pretty he is or how sincere he may appear.

 

“I- it’s nothing. I’m- I’m fine.”

 

Her mind is fuzzy, like her thought process is unable to go anywhere beyond how wonderfully close he is, clouded by the feel of his body right up against hers. The heat is near unbearable now, increasing her light-headedness, and her body aches in places it shouldn’t be aching, making her whole being...crave something it sure as hell _should not_ be craving.

 

It's ridiculous, it's utterly ridiculous, because she barely knows him and she's not even mildly interested in him- okay, she almost snorts at that because _that's_ a lie if there ever was one. She can't even hide behind the guise of 'self-preservation' anymore; she is definitely a liar.

 

She wants him. She wants him so bad she's begun to tremble in his arms. He’s handsome and dashing, a true scoundrel if she’s ever met one, but in a strangely endearing way. Plus... _god,_ does he smell good -- spice and salt and something so distinctly masculine that it cannot help but appeal to her womanly senses.

 

 _Fuck_ , does she sound like an idiot right now.

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because I find that you look rather alluring with roses in your cheeks,” he says, and the way his tongue curls around the words is downright obscene. “But you don’t look fine.”

 

 _Smartass_.

 

Little white dots dance along the edges of her vision and she leads more with instinct than anything else ( _reason_ would be much better suited under the circumstances, and yet, here they are), giving a sharp yank on his necklace, tugging him forward until their foreheads bump and their mouths are inches apart and she can feel the hot puff of his breath slide over her lips.

 

 _Shit, shit, shit_. Attractive smartass.

 

He’s right, something _is_ wrong. Something is so, so wrong and the truth of the powder incident becomes glaringly obvious in the mental war she is waging with herself.

 

“I told you. I’m _fine_.” Her voice sounds more certain than she feels. At least, she hopes it does.

 

He moves slowly, cups her cheek in his palm, an echo of his earlier touch at the tripwire, and that singular brush of his hand send her into a tizzy. Her eyes close at the contact, something between a moan and a whimper escaping through her lips. Her body moves sinuously against him, breasts rubbing and pressing into his chest restlessly as her hands trail a path upwards to wind around his neck.

 

The grip of his fingers against her hip is rough and she has to bite her lip to suppress a gasp. It's silly, but she considers it a small victory to feel his body jerk against hers in response.

 

He swears, low and foul and colorfully enough to clear a bit of the fog that's settled around her head. When she blinks open her eyes, his face swims into her vision -- blurring then clearing in the space between her heartbeats.

 

“You inhaled the powder.” It’s not so much a question as it is a statement.

 

“What?”

 

(It’s increasingly difficult for her to concentrate beyond the fact that his hair is soft between her fingertips, thick and silky and a deep chocolate brown instead of the raven color she had originally thought. There’s an image that flashes through her mind -- filthy but so incredibly _delicious_ \-- of her tugging roughly at it while his head is between her legs and fuck, fuck, _fuck_.)

 

“Did n-not,” she insists, voice wavering, unaware that she’s begun to _really_ pull at his hair.

 

“ _Bloody hell,_ ” he mutters, his tone gruff and smoky to her ears. “Do you realize what that was?”

 

She whines against him, nose rubbing over his as she nods her head. “M-magic knockout powder.”

 

“For _giants_. For us mere mortals it...it works a bit _differently_.”

 

Emma tilts her chin up, unconsciously licking her lips as if she can feel the ghost of his along hers, but says nothing in reply.

 

“Swan, you don’t understand. It acts as an aphrodisiac. You know, it- ah- heightens your desires...of the sexual variety-”

 

 _“I know what an aphrodisiac does_ ,” she snaps, cross because, no thanks to him, the singular word flashing over and over in her head now is _sex, sex, sex_. “And maybe I did inhale the powder. But it was only a little!”

 

(She wants to nibble along his jaw, wants to feel the scrape of his scruff on her skin, the press of his nose into her cheek, his mouth answering her kiss. She wants to know what kind of sounds she can pull from him, the noises he would make if she dragged her teeth over the pulse point below his ear or sucked a mark onto his neck.)

 

“A little is all you need.” He sighs then. “Swan, I’ve seen this magic before, I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse.”

 

Unease settles in the pit of her stomach, that one sentence of his surprisingly sobering as it reminds her that they are on borrowed time. The last warning she didn’t heed ended up with her here -- in his arms, curled around him like some sort of wench he’d picked up at a tavern, mouth just a hair’s breadth away from doing something incredibly stupid, like kissing him.

 

She’s so stupid. This whole thing is stupid.

 

They have more pressing matters to attend to rather than her trying to decipher the true color of his beard -- she swears it’s tinged with just a hint of red -- or seeing how quickly it would take her to get his vest off before dragging that ridiculous shirt over his head.

 

Everything about him is enticing, speaks to her on some deeper level that could be part magic and something more. The unease spreads at the thought and she slides her hand back down to his chest. She means to push him away but she hesitates, fingers stalling near the edge of his shirt, itching to drag him closer and erase the remaining space between them.

 

All of her instincts are telling her to take (she hasn’t done anything for herself in a while), to have (she has a right to indulge), to _feel_ (she’s been so closed off for so long) and it’s difficult to remember reason when she’s too busy thinking about how easy it would be to get his mouth on hers.

 

“Emma.” His voice is a warning -- or a plea, she can’t be sure.

 

“What?”

 

“Are you going to kiss me?”

 

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

 

He angles his head slightly and gives her small, crooked smile. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

 

It’s an invitation if there ever was one, but it’s one she cannot accept. “Let’s just find the compass. We have to look for the compass.”

 

She has no idea where her control comes from, but she manages to push him away for a second time, praying the look on her face betrays nothing of her inner turmoil. The shove is an act of defiance, though she is wobblier on her feet then she would like when she does it, possibly even shaking more than before. But she straightens her spine and squares her shoulders as she regains her balance.

 

The glare she shoots him is cutting and she says nothing more before she turns on her heel and starts to walk away from him. She can suppress a few basic urges, she’s stronger than she looks. Besides, she’s got a ton of experience with that, compartmentalizing and all, and right now, her goal is to acquire that compass so that they can steal the wardrobe ashes from Cora and get back to Storybrooke.

 

There’s a lot at stake and she’s not going to lose because of a stupid plant and a stupid pouch of powder and a _stupidly_ attractive pirate.

 

\-----

 

She purposefully wanders away from Hook, ignoring his incessant chatter about the wealth of treasure the giant has managed to accumulate over the years and rolling her eyes at his occasional murmurings about how much they could realistically take back with them -- _along with the compass, of course_. His grin is cheeky when he reassures her and she does not bother hiding her increasing annoyance with him.

 

It’s not entirely his fault, she knows it’s not. It’s that stupid powder and her intoxication that’s making her irritable. He tries her patience, but that’s nothing new, and while the magic coursing through her is amplifying those feelings, it’s also amplifying _everything else_.  

 

Like the sound of his voice? _It’s driving her crazy_.

 

It might be the accent -- really, what woman isn’t attracted to them -- but it just... _slides_ over her skin. Something smooth and rich like honey, but rough around the edges and far more enticing than it should be. It stirs up her insides, clouds her brain, makes her stomach clench in response.

 

She needs to get away; she’s certain that’ll help. Just a moment alone to gather herself, to restore her focus.

 

Trudging along the spacious lair, his voice slowly begins to fade. The farther she goes, so do the click of his boots against the stone pavement, leaving her with only the company of her erratically beating heart while it rings in her ears and a buzzing sensation along her skin. She is unsure if Hook’s seen her leave his side, but at this point she doesn’t care because she just needs to breathe. Desperately.

 

That’s a lie though, and for someone who loathes them, she’s doing a hell of a job of racking them up today. What she _really_ needs is to force her mind and energy away from the thrumming, constant need building to worrisome levels in her body. What she suspects she really needs is... _relief_.

 

 _Of the sexual variety_ , her memory not-so-helpfully chimes in (in exactly _that_ voice).

 

 _God._ This whole thing with the beanstalk and the giant and the compass? It is so insanely unbelievable. Added to that, the knockout powder-slash-aphrodisiac? What kind of fresh hell of fantastical absurdity and fairytales come true did she fall into? She’s decided that she hates it. She hates this place, she hates magic. She hates that she feels like she is falling down the rabbit hole and there’s no way stop it, like she’s burning up from the inside out and slowly being consumed.

 

All she wants is to get out of here and forget any of this happened, that any of this exists. In fact, there’s a part of her deeply entertaining the idea of taking Henry far, far away the minute she gets back -- New York, Boston, goddamn Tallahassee even -- just _away_ to erase the last few weeks of their lives.

 

Fuck it.

 

Fuck all of it, honestly.

 

Emma continues to walk between rows and rows of stacked coins and mounds of gold at an aimless pace. Her mood is sour and she feels slightly disoriented, limbs heavy as if she were traipsing through a muddy swamp. There’s a bubble around her head muting all outside stimuli and allowing only the sensations happening in her body to crowd her mind -- the pulsing need, the rush of blood through her veins, the ache between her legs that is both a growing irritation and her number one source of frustration. Her breath sits pushed back in her lungs, making it hard to think straight. She doesn’t want to give her body the attention it’s demanding, but it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore.  

 

She sighs with relief when she happens upon a cage nestled in the center of a little alcove made of more piles of treasure, approaching it without hesitation and reaching out for the bars when she’s close enough. The jacket grasped between her fingers falls from hand to feet in her desperation to feel anchored to something, and she hopes it will serve as a decent alternative to the other sort of remedy she’s craving.

 

The wound on her hand -- cut at some point during her climb up the beanstalk then bandaged with a piece of cloth by hook and hand and clever, clever _mouth_ \-- stings from the pressure of the metal against it. The pain is sharp, throbbing in her palm and zinging up her arm. It hurts, but it is a much better focal point than everything else happening inside of her. It helps to clear her head a little bit, temporarily steadies her racing heart, and quells the inferno that’s begun to burn in her very bones. The breaths she’s gulping into her lungs as she leans her forehead on the bars makes the heat she can’t escape slightly more tolerable.

 

But it’s not just the heat she can’t brush aside and ignore.

 

There’s nothing to be done about the images that keep creeping into her brain. They are a constant loop of her and Hook and all the terribly filthy things she wants to do to him, the things that she wants him to do to _her_. It’s an effect of the powder, obviously, but still. She shouldn’t be imagining them at all, or rather, she doesn’t want to. She feels vulnerable this way, helplessly exposed to her innermost thoughts. Her frustration only mounts at the way the tension already radiating from her body is heightened by the desires she would never candidly speak of, by every deliciously inappropriate thought she conjures in her imagination.

 

She’s always had a rather vivid imagination too, and perhaps it _is_ better that Hook be left to his own devices while they search for the compass. At least for right now anyway, because the closer he is, the harder it is not to lose control, to want to give in to the temptation he unknowingly offers her.

 

The truth of the matter is that he gets under her skin -- intrigues her, makes her wonder -- and damn it, perhaps she is operating under the influence of magic, but she can’t deny that in this moment, right now, _she wants him_. As a confession that is only acceptable in the privacy of her mind and for someone determined to keep all of her her cards close, it’s a rather big admonition to make. Magic or no.

 

That’s an unnerving thought to have, that she wants him, that she might even _like_ him, and it’s the solitary reason why she’s been fighting with herself since she’d opened up Pandora’s Box with her tossed out comment about his tattoo. It changed things between them, because while he’d been able to read her on their climb up the beanstalk, at the top of it, she’d been able to recognize something in him too.

 

_For someone who’s never been in love, you’re quite perceptive, aren’t you?_

 

_Maybe I was...once._

 

Then suddenly he wasn’t Captain Hook anymore. He went from villain to relatable in the space of a few heartbeats and that was probably the worst thing that could have happened to her. There’s nothing worse than finding someone you have things in common with. She knows all too well what that’s like, and she knows even better what happens when you let someone in _because_ of those shared experiences. She doesn’t want to understand Killian- _Hook_ , and she certainly doesn’t want to _like_ him.

 

She can’t for the life of her even deal with _that_ right now. Not now. Not when they’re so close to getting back to Storybrooke.

 

And Henry.

 

_Storybrooke and Henry._

 

Those are much more sobering thoughts than wanting to tear through his clothes and fuck him senseless, than wanting to see if there’s any truth to his innuendos, if he can actually back up all of that talk or if it’s just that -- _talk_. Worse, is wanting to see if there’s something _more_ there. If there’s something beyond his own walls and deflections, beyond his playful smiles and harmless flirting.

 

Which is why it’s better for her that she _doesn’t_. No harm can be done if she doesn’t latch onto whatever is between them -- it’s nothing, there’s nothing between them -- and if she doesn’t entertain the idea that he might be different or trustworthy, that he could be someone more than just a pirate or temporary ally. It’s better all around if she doesn’t think about how his smile curls his lips when he’s thoroughly impressed or amused by something she’s said or done, or how solid and... _male_ he feels in her arms and against her body.

 

Really, it’s for her own sanity and peace of mind that she fight the urges attempting to override her judgment. So she thinks solely of her son, of getting back to him, clinging to his memory and love like a lifeline because he is the most important person in her entire world and if she’s too busy thinking about him, she’s too busy to think about _Hook_.

 

As if on cue, her mind betrays her resolve again and she can recall in detail how close they had been earlier, how tightly their bodies had been molded together. It’s very easy to remember the way his lips had teasingly grazed over hers when he was speaking to her, and it’s very easy to want him to do it again, to want him to do more.

 

He oozes nothing but charm and sexuality and she finds it a heady combination, perhaps more than before no thanks to the powder, or perhaps she’s just more willing to admit it.

 

_God, she needs to come so bad._

 

It’s a jarring and abrupt thought, another one that she can freely admit in the privacy of her mind, despite the fact that it makes her call her sanity into question because-

 

There’s a rustle behind her that jolts her from her internal rambling, the familiar clack of boots on the stony ground, and she swears under her breath. This is the last thing she needs, the very last thing.

 

“Swan?”

 

“ _What?_ ” she hisses, not bothering to glance over her shoulder at him. The metal of the bars is no longer cool to touch and offers no more relief from the burn along her skin, but she’s reasoned that it’s better to have something to hold onto. Otherwise she might find herself doing far more idiotic and reckless things when face to face with him -- like making a grab for him again, or worse, kissing him.

 

(Sleeping with him, _fucking him into oblivion_.)

 

( _Goddamn it._ )

 

“What the bloody hell are you doing all the way over here?”

 

“Eating bonbons, obviously.”

 

She’s knows he’s got a witty reply on his tongue for her sass and she wishes he would pick a fight rather than say nothing, because she can feel his eyes on her too and that’s no better. He does nothing more than take stock of her current condition but she shivers anyway at the electric jolt of energy that zips across her shoulders from his silent perusal.

 

“Are you alright?” His voice is soft, devoid of playfulness and full of concern.

 

She doesn’t want it to be. It conjures up too many memories from earlier when they’d been in the same place, except...closer. She bites her tongue on the answer she really wants to give him because _he keeps asking that same stupid question he already knows the answer to_ , and instead, manages a much nicer albeit dripping with irritation, “How many times do I have to tell you? _I’m fine_.”

 

He sighs and she imagines his eyes rolling with the gesture. “I told you it would only get worse.”  There’s no smugness in his tone the way she expected there to be and she feels so _screwed_.  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but something must be done-”

 

“I’m handling it.”

 

“Like hell you are. You look near to falling over. I might even be able to manage it with nothing more than a push from my pinky finger. Shall we test the theory?”

 

He draws nearer, standing beside her and her hands grip even tighter at the bars. It has to be the magic, there is no other explanation for the way her body seems to seek out the heat he naturally exudes, how it latches onto it like a necessity. How she wants more of it -- closer, seeping into her.

 

He touches her, absolutely nothing sexual about it, merely trails a finger down the length of her arm. She comes apart at the seams, swearing under her breath as a blaze of fire seems to singe her skin in the wake of his caress. Her reaction is so powerful it makes her dizzy. She understands the gesture for what it was: a means to prove her wrong, and he did. Her knuckles are white on the bars now, her whole body shaking as she tries to pull air into her lungs (and pull herself together). She knows there’s a smirk on his face now and that it’s full of smugness.

 

“ _Well, what do you suggest?_ ” She actually aims for a snarl this time, but she’s not sure how effective her execution is. It seems to be the opposite and sounds a bit like a pathetic whimper to her ears.

“Well, it’s quite simple, actually. You have to...quench the thirst.”

 

“I’m sorry, I have to _what_?”

 

“You know...”

 

At his pause, she finally does turn to fix him with a look -- the hesitancy is so uncharacteristic from what she’s used to. He waves his hand, looks strangely and mildly embarrassed for the innuendo-laced, ostentatiously flirty Captain Hook she’s come to know, and her brow quirks up at him as he struggles to find the proper words to say.

 

“Oh, spit it out, Hook. If you’ve got a remedy, let’s hear it.”

 

“You have to relieve yourself.”

 

“ _Excuse me_?” Her cheeks flame at that, heat creeping up her neck and all the way into her ears, both brows shooting up into her hairline.

 

He scratches behind his ear in that nervous tick he has. “You have to _relieve_ yourself.” At her unamused look he sighs exasperatedly. “ _Pleasure_ yourself until-”

 

“ _I got it_ ,” she interrupts, not allowing him to finish the sentence; she can fill in the blanks herself.

 

In fact, she had been afraid he was going to say that. It had been her own conclusion earlier, but still, it didn’t sound so bad when it was just a suspicion in her head instead of a truth she is being forced to face. She swears again, dropping her head back onto the bars. _Of course_ she would have to. What other way to quell desires caused by a potent magical aphrodisiac than to have an orgasm (or a few, if the need tearing through her insides is anything to go by).

 

Has she mentioned she hates magic?

 

“I’m afraid there’s really no other way to ease the-”

 

“And if I don’t?” she cuts him off again.

 

“Look, this magic is dangerous. It has felled the very bravest and strongest of warriors, reduced them all to bumbling, lustful idiots that only care about one thing: _relief_ and where they can acquire it. By any means necessary.”

 

The foreboding in the statement makes her turn her head to peek one eye open at him, and though the look he gives her is quite serious, she catches a teasing lilt to his voice that negates the expression on his face and the implications of his words.

 

“You’re making that up,” she scowls.

 

His laugh is loud and hearty. “Alright, maybe a little,” he smiles, reaching out to toy with a lock of her hair. “Truth be told, I’ve never actually met anyone as determined as you to deny themselves a cure. Most people that inhale the pollen just give in to their urges. There is truth to what I say, though. The magic _will_ eat at you.”

 

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

 

He shifts again, even closer still and her eyes flutter closed while her jaw clenches with the effort it takes to keep from turning towards him, to keep from touching him. She feels the cage move under his weight and knows without looking that he’s leaning up against it.

 

“Oh, that I can confirm with absolute certainty -- it’s bad.”

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

“Suit yourself, but if you require some assistance,” he drawls, lowering his voice as if sharing some wicked little secret with her. “I’d be more than delighted to offer my services.”

 

Sure he would, why isn’t she surprised? She opens her eyes once more, watches as a smirk blooms on his lips. The dimples in his cheeks deepen and she hates that she finds them so appealing. “In your dreams, pal.”

 

“Darling, in my dreams, we’d have remedied your little problem ages ago.”

 

She ignores the come-on again, the stupid lift of brows and the way the grin on his lips dances in his eyes. She is completely unimpressed by his flirting -- _completely_ \-- and tells him as much with a glowering look.

 

“I told you,” she insists, and she knows she sounds like a petulant child, probably looks like one with the way she’s scrunching her nose and frowning at him, but she doesn’t care. “I’m fine. Let’s just keep looking for the compass and get the hell out of dodge.”

 

“Stubborn thing, aren’t you?” he sighs. “Let’s put it this way, love: you let this continue on any longer and you’ll be so daft with wanting you’ll be no good in locating the compass, let alone making the trip back down the beanstalk. I’m impressed you’ve managed this far without _begging_ me for a quick romp.”

 

He leans forward, nose practically brushing hers, near enough that she can see the ring of darker blue around his irises and feel his body heat envelop her. His eyebrows dance salaciously as his tongue curls around the word ‘begging’ and though it takes some effort, she rolls her eyes again.

 

“Persistent thing, aren’t you?” she throws his words back at him, tone barbed.

 

“You have no idea,” he chuckles at that. “But that’s hardly the point, the point is that I’m not the one about to be a bumbling mess of incoherency and sexual frustration in another ten minutes, so unless you plan on throwing yourself back into my waiting -- and very, _very_ capable -- arms, I suggest you get to it, love,” he tells her, grin widening matter-of-factly.

 

She groans in annoyance (and because deep down she knows he’s right). She contemplates his words for another long moment before shooting an exasperated look at him. “ _Well?_ ” she barks. “Go away. I’m not going to give you a free show.”

 

“Pity,” he chuckles, the dimples in his cheeks deepening and she hates that she finds them so appealing. He does as she wishes though, leaving her be with a mocking little bow and a teasing wink.

 

She waits as the sound of his steps grow fainter and fainter, and for a brief moment has a flicker of dread that he’s just ducked down somewhere or behind something like a creep, but...at the same time, it doesn’t feel like his style -- _I’m always a gentleman_.

 

Her hands clench and unclench around the metal, a frustrated whimper caught in her throat as she tries to work up the nerve to...take care of the matter herself, as he so eloquently put it. Her only consolation is that the sooner she gets it done, the better she’ll be and the sooner they can continue on as planned.

 

\-----

 

She doesn’t know how long she stands there. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours even. The only thing she’s certain of is the fight persisting between her innate stubbornness and the demands of her body. She lifts her head from the bars, lightly hits her forehead back against it so that the cage rattles in protest.

 

“This is so stupid,” she mutters to herself.

 

The air stirs behind her, the familiar click of boots and rustling of leather echoing in her ears. She knows it’s him and yet, it doesn't lessen the surprise when he moves to stand at her back. His chest grazes against her shoulder blades in the process and her next breath whooshes out jaggedly between her lips.

 

“You’ll find no argument from me,” he retorts, sounding cross.

 

She feels his arm move around her, feels him press further into her back as the sleeve of his shirt brushes across her bare arm and his hand gently slides over hers where it still grips the cage. Her knees almost buckle at the contact -- a contrasting mix of rough and calloused fingers but warm and soft skin. When he coaxes her death-like grip from the bar, her whole body freezes up in panic.

 

He’s stolen her lifeline from her and anxiety abruptly begins to claw at her chest. “What the hell are you-”

 

“Quiet,” he hushes, and she swallows the rest of her words.

 

He uses his ‘Captain’s voice’ -- firm, confident, demanding he be obeyed -- and she listens. It’s unusual, to say the least, and it definitely throws her for a loop. She normally doesn’t take well to commands and it annoys her that she was so quick to fall into line for him. She’s got a few choice words for him about that, some biting comment that immediately flies out the window the second he places her hand on her stomach, trapping it between the sweat-damp material of her shirt and his palm.

 

She has only a moment to consider his intentions, perhaps even less than that because he doesn’t bother with pretenses, capitalizing on her second of confusion and using that hesitancy to slip their joined hands between her legs.

 

Oh. _Ohh_.

 

The first touch is a shock to the system -- forbidden and hot and everything she’s been wanting since she’d first taken notice of how the powder had affected her. The air trapped in her lungs whooshes out then, and the whole thing is incredibly amusing to her because she didn’t realize she’d even been holding her breath.

 

Scorching heat pulls inwards from her limbs, centering at her core, where she is -- and has been -- aching the most. He applies the tiniest bit of pressure to her fingers, to _her_ , and her eyes flutter close. Her head swims from the pleasure that quickly floods her system.

 

There’s a whisper on the back of her neck, murmured into her skin with the barely-there touch of lips. _Let me help you, Swan_.

 

It’s her undoing.

 

All she can focus on is the feeling in her stomach, the overwhelming sensation of anticipation and the way it tenses her whole body as she starts to climb higher and higher. He’s solid behind her -- _steady_ \-- and it’s a comforting contrast to the restlessness that has made her a writhing mess in his arms.

 

The blunt edge of his hook slips beneath her black tank top, metal cool against her heated flesh, and the sensation of it is almost too much for her already overstimulated state. Her back arches in response, hips pressing into his while another one of her strangled moans fills the air around them. She notices him tense behind her, in fact, she thinks he might have even swore too, but she’ll never be sure since her brain ceases functioning the second he lightly drags the tip of his hook across her side to anchor it to her hip. The sharp scrape feels good, the slight pain blooming to something heavenly.

 

There is nothing possessive about the gesture, though, he means simply to hold her in place. But it acts as a tether for her to grasp onto while her world inevitably falls apart.

 

Emma leans her weight back, her head falling to his shoulder. She’s breathing hard now, body coiling beneath their ministrations. He acts as her guide, encourages her while they rub circles over her clit through the denim of her jeans. He pushes down a little harder, a little tighter, and she draws her bottom lip between her teeth to keep from crying out. She turns her face towards him, forehead resting against his jaw, panting little breaths escaping her mouth. Their hands shift lower, her palm catching on that sensitive bundle of nerves with every roll of her hips beneath their hands.

 

Holy shit. _Holy. Shit._

 

“Hook-”

 

“Try something new, darling,” he murmurs in her ear, lips grazing hotly against the shell and sending her system into overdrive. “It’s called ‘trust.’”

 

There’s a very large ball of emotion that lodges itself in her throat, a fist that clenches just beneath her breastbone, a swell of _feeling_ that rises up like a tide. She wants to shake her head, wants to tell him she _can’t_ trust him, that she doesn’t _know_ him, that she- _god._ It’s too much. He’s too much.

 

_She can’t, she can’t, she can’t._

 

But it all feels like more lies from her and as the intensity mounts and the tidal wave crashes and breaks, Emma finally surrenders, gives herself over to her body, to the need that’s been building and building, and is _still_ building, the ache so fierce in her bones she can scarcely breathe. Another gasp spills from her lips, and she loosens her other hand from the cage to grip at his wrist. She tells herself she means to push him away, she does, but what happens in real life is very different from what happens in her mind, because what she actually does is press his hand harder against hers, consequently pressing her own hand harder against her body.

 

_Oh god._

 

She whimpers against the flash of heat that thunders through her, whines at the way it twists her stomach into knots. The magnitude of her desires, of her pleasure, is unparalleled; she has never in her life experienced this kind of raging need or delicious array of sensations, and when she finally reaches that golden-tipped peak she’s been craving and chasing after for what feels like an eternity, she is suspended in time and space. There is nothing for a few glorious moments, and then there is everything, and as she falls -- down, down, down into a wonderland of sensual gratification -- for the first time in nearly a decade, she lets someone catch her.

 

\-----

 

At the end of it all, she is frozen in his arms, somehow tense despite feeling incredibly sated and satisfied. The only disturbance in the quiet that surrounds them is her heavy breaths pushing out from her lungs and the comforting brush of his fingers across her hand.

 

She knows there’s a part of her that should feel ashamed or embarrassed over her actions, that she allowed him to... _help_ her the way he did, but none of those emotions are presently at the forefront of her mind. What _is_ weighing heavily on her thoughts is the part of her that _doesn’t_ feel as if they did anything wrong.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

The question breaks through the fog muddling her brain, causing her to lift her head though she doesn’t pull away from him. Not yet.

 

She has enough sense back to note that he is always asking her that and it makes her wonder if he knows any questions beyond that. It makes her think that perhaps this will become a habit of his. (She almost snorts at that, and maybe she doesn’t _quite_ have enough sense back after all, or she’s probably still under the influence of magic or the post-sex haze, because it’s laughable to think that he would stick around.)

 

Instead of replying with a short, curt answer as she always does, she makes the mistake of turning to face him -- of looking right at him -- because the second she does, all bets are off.

 

He surprises her. The heat in his gaze, his pupils blown wide, how he looks flushed and disheveled and as positively wrecked as she feels. She wasn’t prepared for or even expecting that.

 

“ _Swan._ ” He says her name, but nothing beyond that.

 

And it’s like a dam breaks.

 

Maybe it’s the powder still humming in her veins. Maybe the magic springs back to life at the sight of him in that state. Maybe it’s something else completely, but regardless, there’s something about him that speaks to her, not just in this moment, but beyond that. There’s something about him that brushes against parts of her that no one has touched in forever. It’s that, more than anything else, that reignites her desires and all of the feelings -- all conflicting ones -- she has for him.

 

She pounces on him between their next breaths, grabs him this time by the collar of his shirt as she had longed to do earlier, and crushes him to her. Her mouth slants eagerly -- _demandingly_ \-- over his, and the momentum of her onslaught knocks him back a few paces. But she’s right there with him, breathing him in, acquainting herself with his taste on her tongue.

 

He is everywhere, all at once, overwhelming again and confusing the hell out of her, but _real_. God, so real and so, so _good_. Better than she had imagined just hours before.

 

It takes him a second to catch his breath, to catch up with her, to understand that she has given him permission to meet her halfway if he so wishes, and he must -- _fuck --_ he must because then he’s moving, dragging her even tighter against him, eliminating all space between their bodies as his hand tangles in her hair. His mouth opens under the insistent swipe of her tongue against his bottom lip. Someone groans, a deep, grumbling sound that sounds absolutely delightful to her ears, but she’s not sure if it’s her or him or them both together.

 

She hardly cares.

 

She was lost before -- before fairytales and curses and pirates with dangerously charming smiles and surprising layers -- drowning in sea of lifelessness.

 

She’s still lost now -- after beanstalks and magic knock-out powder and blue, blue eyes -- drowning in a myriad of sensation and feelings she thought she’d locked away long ago.

 

The only difference is that, somehow, in some strange way -- she feels _found_.

 

Her back suddenly hits the cage, catching her off-guard. She sucks in a breath -- part pain, part surprise, part excitement and lots and lots of anticipation.

 

This is crazy. This is absolutely insane.

 

And she has never felt so alive.

 

“This doesn’t, it’s not-” She moans when his hand slips beneath her shirt, fingers warm and insistent against the skin he touches and begins to explore just above the line of her jeans. “Just a one time thing,” she manages to get out, despite the way the room spins and how he overwhelms her in every sense of the word.

 

“Aye,” he agrees.

 

But he kisses her again, harder this time, as if he means to steal the rationalization from her lips, and his fingers dig into her hip, as if he means to leave his mark on her to serve as a reminder for later of the passion ignited between them.

 

As if she could ever forget.

 

Still, she tries to tell herself it means nothing, _he_ means nothing. That this is simply a circumstance brought on by the magic of the powder. It’s just sex. She’s just needy and horny and he’s just here helping her, being the gentleman he claimed he was.

 

Though, there certainly is nothing gentlemanly about the way he drags his hand up her back and presses her into him, so hard that her nipples tighten beneath her bra and ache at the friction created by the material and his chest. There is definitely nothing gentlemanly about the way his tongue eagerly dips back into her mouth to stroke and tease and entice.

 

Her hands fumble between them, fingers working clumsily at the laces of his pants. The ache blooms once more between her legs; she can feel the dampness through her panties, moistening her thighs. She’s so needy she can’t think straight. Hook pushes her hands away, turns her from him so she is facing the bars again. She knows his intention -- quick, dirty, easy -- the way she wants it.

 

She grips at her own clothes, efficiently working the button off and the zipper down her jeans. She just starts to shimmy out of them when he’s there again, at her back, hand and hook helping to ease the material down about mid-thigh.

 

He presses up against her, lips latching onto her neck as he wastes no time slipping his hand between cotton and skin. Her back bows when he touches her, his fingers gliding teasingly along slick folds. It’s different this time -- _more_ \-- because there is no clothing to dull the sensation. There’s just him and her and his fingers as he drags them through her, gathering the moisture up before circling her clit. He kisses up her neck at the same time, taking little nips of her skin and drawing little circles with his tongue while he expertly forges a path up to the sensitive spot just below her ear. His teeth latch onto her earlobe, tugging roughly while his fingers slip inside her and make her gasp. He curls his fingers, palm pressing where she is most sensitive and Emma is completely shaken by what he manages to pull from her.

 

He says nothing, just continues to suck a bruise into her skin, but then, he doesn’t need to speak. She knows what he wants. He wants her to come undone for him -- _again_. He is practically wild for it if the way he’s grinding into her from behind is anything to go by.

 

It’s too much, _he_ is too much.

 

And it takes no time at all to get her there, up and over the edge, chasing the delicious aftershocks of her release. He reaches up with his hook, using the curved part to tip her face towards him so that he can capture her lips in another searing kiss. His hips have begun to move a little more -- small, restless thrusts -- but he doesn’t stop moving his hand, drawing out her high as long as possible before gently bringing her down.

 

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._

 

She sags tiredly against him and finds that he was right, of course. The relief is instantaneous after her last two orgasms, but she can still feel the effects of the aphrodisiac in her blood, beckoning for more. There is an underlying itch and unease in her bones, and now that she’s allowed herself to let go, she finds that she isn’t completely satisfied just yet.

 

Plus, she can still feel the rigidness of him at her back.

 

“Again,” she demands, unsure of where her voice comes from, let alone her courage. It’s nothing more than a quiet breath, barely above a whisper, but he hears her all the same.

 

Her hands are back on the cage at his insistence and she can hear him undoing his laces, pushing his trousers down. He is as mindless as her, as driven by lust and the desire to _have_. His hand brushes along her side, and she thinks perhaps the gesture is affectionate, before he reaches down and guides himself to her. She can feel him nudging at her entrance, feel her body give way as he presses forward and they both groan at the sensation. He moves inch by inch, slowly to drive them both crazy, until he is fully inside of her. He pulls back out at the same pace and that first drag of him is unbelievable.

 

Her eyes roll back into her head and her forehead press even harder into the bars. “ _Fuck._ ” Oh _fuck_.

 

“Swan, Emma, I-”

 

She pushes back into him, back arching as she clenches around him and makes him swear. “Don’t,” she says with a shake of her head. “Don’t.”

 

It’s a plea, but whether she means for him to shut up or for him to keep fucking into her, she’s not entirely sure.

 

(It’s both, it’s definitely both.)

 

His hand slips back under her shirt, trails up from stomach to breast until she fills his palm. He kneads for a moment, then tugs the cup of her bra down so her sensitive flesh pebbles beneath his skin. Her nipple tightens to a bud and then his fingers are there, twisting and rolling and pinching, making her cry out once more.

 

Her noises appear to spur him on; he thrusts a little harder, a little deeper, stroke after delicious stroke until she’s certain she’s delirious with pleasure. Reason is completely gone, thrown out the window as she allows herself to be governed by her senses and basic human instinct. She can’t stop moving her hips against his, _with his_. She can’t stop wanting more of everything he so willingly gives to her.

 

She doesn’t want to.

 

He gets that spot on the next thrust, the one that inspires another groan from her throat and makes her chest feel like it’s going to explode, that makes her grind back harder into him.

 

“Fuck! Right there, oh _god_ , right there,” she whines.

 

It’s all the encouragement he needs, picking up the pace of his hips as he drives into her. He is determined to bring her over the edge one final time before he follows, but she seems to be stuck there, pleasure mounting and going nowhere. She whimpers, a frustrated sound, as she teeters between madness and reason, and just as she thinks she might not have it in her, that she’ll never find relief, she comes on a wordless cry. Her orgasm pulses out from her center, her entire frame jerking still against his as one of her hands leaves the bar to grip at his hook where it digs into her hip. He plunges in after her a moment later, losing himself in the moment, in her body and the pleasure between them.

 

(She falls again and he is there to catch her again, and there’s a small part inside of her -- secretly, stupidly hopeful -- that wonders if that’s to be a pattern with them too.)

 

\-----

 

They don’t talk after, but there is no awkwardness in the silence as they stand there together. She feels his forehead pressed to her shoulder, his breaths puffing out as hard as hers. She wonders if his heart is beating as wildly too.

 

Hook lifts his head and she feels him bury his face into her hair, nose nuzzling at her ear. It’s a tender gesture, one that is strangely more intimate than anything they’d just done, and she can’t help but seize up again, shoulders tensing while her hands wrap back tightly around the bars in front of her.

 

“That was- ah-”

 

Her heart jumps into her throat at the sleepy, sated tone of his voice. She doesn’t let him finish, she can’t, so she shifts away, shuffling closer to the cage because there’s nowhere else for her to go. He slips gently from her and she drops her forehead against the mental, eyes closing as she presses her lips together to keep from moaning at the loss.

 

(Shit. _Shit_.)

 

“The compass,” she says quietly. “Let’s just find the compass and go home.”

 

It takes him a second to answer, perhaps to gather his bearings. “Alright,” he replies.

 

He doesn’t sigh, but she can hear it in his voice all the same.

 

They dress in silence, and while there is no awkwardness between them, there is tension. Tension so thick that when the air makes its way into her lungs, the weight of it makes it difficult to breathe. She doesn’t look at him, not once, afraid once again of what she might say or do in the aftermath of this crazy situation.

 

She can sense that there is much on his mind, perhaps even a couple of things he wants to say, but despite that he doesn’t. It surprises her, as he’s always been the chatty sort and free with his thoughts. She can’t deny she isn’t glad that he chooses to keep everything to himself though. Besides, she’s also not sure she can handle anything he would have to say anyway.

 

Emma lets him keep his silence while she stoops to retrieve her jacket from the ground, sliding it back on as if it were armor. Her hands move under her hair at the nape of her neck, lifting it free from beneath the collar.

 

His eyes are on her -- watching, contemplating, twisting her stomach into knots. The heaviness of his gaze makes her swallow thickly, agitatedly tugging on her tank top to secure it into place. There are little aches already beginning to form in her body and she imagines she’s got a few bruises too, souvenirs of the things they’d done, all of which she ignores.

 

(But she can still feel the grip of his fingers on her hip, the warmth of his skin, the drag of him inside of her.)

 

She squares her shoulders and takes a steadying breath. He’s used to this, she’s sure -- one night stands, nameless, faceless partners the way that she is. Something to temporarily fill the void while you go about your life -- vengeance for him and finding people for her. She hates the thought -- that she gets it, that he could understand that about her too.

 

That they have one more thing in common.

 

She thought she had a lot of things in common with someone else, before. Gave up her whole world, her whole heart, and had nothing to show for it in the end. Well, save for years of compartmentalizing, pushing people away, trust issues and walls miles high.

 

God, she needs to get out of here. She’s too vulnerable here, too willing to reflect on things she thought she’d buried and had no intention of ever dredging up again. It was just recently, really -- since Henry had come back into her life -- that she had learned to heal some of those things, to let some of those walls down. Hook, frighteningly, makes her want to tear a little more of those walls down too and it’s exactly _that_ which causes her to put said walls firmly back into place.

 

“Don’t follow me,” she tells him. “Go the other way or something.”

 

“As you wish,” comes his soft, resigned reply.

 

(She wonders if there’s a Dread Pirate Roberts around these parts and hates that the corner of her mouth tugs up in amusement as she walks away.)

 

\-----

 

It’s easy enough to pretend like the past few hours never transpired _._ Easy enough to continue on their quest to acquire the compass now that she’s back to normal and not a raging ball of hormones.

 

Well, as normal as she can be after having just had the best sex of her life with _Captain Hook_.

 

( _Ugh._ She hates her life.)

 

It’s easy to separate her feelings, to push them all aside, to face the giant -- now angrier than before after what they’d done to him -- and defeat him, to hold the prize of the compass in her hand.

 

It’s her ticket home, to Henry. It’s her way out, to get _away_ from here.

 

(Away from _him_.)

 

It’s even easy to chain him to the wall.

 

(She just has to swallow back the rather large lump in her throat.)

 

\-----

 

He stands there, pleading with her, eyes so hurt and betrayed and _angry_.

 

“What are you doing? _What are you doing?_ ”

 

“Hook, I- I…” A breath heavily expels from her lips. She can’t meet his gaze, is afraid of what she’ll find if she does. “I- I can’t-”

 

“Emma, look at me. Have I told you a lie?”

 

She can’t stand the words he speaks. Mostly she can’t take his honesty, but she can give him some of hers.

 

“I can’t take the chance that I’m wrong about you.”

 

It’s hard, for some reason -- walking away this time. Harder than she thought it would be and oddly enough, it _hurts._ But she’s got more important things to worry about than what feels like a breakup with a boyfriend. (They’re not breaking up because he’s _not_ her boyfriend.) Besides, he’s resourceful. If there’s one thing she’s positive about, it’s that. He’ll find a way out, she’s sure of it.

 

She tucks it all away, the emotions he managed to stir up, and doesn’t think of the _affection_ he’d given her or the _concern_. She doesn’t think of the sex or the hopelessly wrecked look on his face when he’d helped her find release for the first time.  

 

She’s got a son to get back to, a father to see, a town to take care of, and Captain Hook?

 

He can just go back to being what he always was -- a fantasy, a fairytale, a villain, a pirate -- and get the hell out of her life.

 

His shouts echo after her as she turns to walk away, but she neither slows down nor looks back, ignoring the little voice in her head telling her that she’s wrong because it’s not easy. Not even a little bit. Especially now that he’s under her skin.

 

She pushes through it like she always does, though, like the survivor she is and will continue to be long after he’s just another clichéd ‘notch on her bedpost,’ a distant memory of a good lay on some fantastical adventure at the top of a beanstalk.

 

Or so she hopes, anyway.

 

(Ocean blue eyes haunt her the entire journey down. The cut on her palm that burns with every grasp of the vines, reminding her of what she had done and whom she had left behind.)

 

\-----

 

It will be years later, after curses and villains and separation -- _death_ being the greatest -- testing the strength of their love for each other, that she finds that the voice in her head that fateful day was right. She _was_ wrong, and as they stand side-by-side -- his arm slung around her shoulders and hers around his waist, his lips pressed to her temple as she stares at their new bed in the master bedroom of _their home_ \-- never has she been more glad to be.

 

His chuckle is soft in the air, rumbling from his chest, and it makes her pull back to gaze up at him. She is helpless to smile back at the grin he gives her, at the way his dimples crease in his cheeks and his eyes crinkle around the edges.

 

“What?” she wonders.

 

“I was just thinking,” he replies. “Of how nice it is to have this huge bed, instead of a dark, giant-infested beanstalk.”

 

He wiggles his brows at her and she turns into him, fingers digging into his ribs to tickle another laugh out of him.

 

“There was only one giant and he was unconscious.”

 

“Nuance, Swan,” he shrugs, smile widening as his arms slip around her waist and he leans in closer so his mouth hovers enticingly over hers. “But there _was_ a beanstalk...and a cage...and a pouch of-”

 

“ _Really?_ ” she interrupts, hands sliding up his torso and around his neck before tangling in his hair. “Hmmm. I can’t say that I remember that.”

 

His brow quirks up at her and her laughter is gentle against his lips as she leans up to bump his nose affectionately with hers -- he always has loved a challenge.

 

“Perhaps you require something to jog your memory?”

 

“Perhaps, indeed,” she murmurs, tugging at the silken locks between her fingers.

 

His hair is longer than it was then, but the gesture is reminiscent of that first time and she gets the desired effect -- a growl in the back of his throat.

 

She kisses him first, just as she did then. Her squeal is muffled by his mouth as he tumbles them into bed, but the mattress is soft at her back and his happy smile even softer as he presses it to every bit of skin he can reach.

 

Later, when she is sprawled out over him -- his cheek cupped in her hand and a lazy, sated grin tugging up the corners of his mouth, nothing but tenderness in his gaze -- she watches as he turns his head to press his lips against the faint scar that runs across her palm. The gesture chokes her up a little bit, fills her heart with so much love, and as she lowers her head to kiss him one more time. His hand finds hers so his thumb can trace across the mark, making her think of what was, what has been, and what will always, always be.

 

_Fin_

  


**Author's Note:**

> A very, VERY belated Happy Birthday to msgenevieve447 on Tumblr, whom this was written for :D


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